


On the Dark Side

by cerulean_sin (am_bellanoire)



Series: The Captain and Her First Mate (Huma One-Shots) [3]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Descriptions of Violence (but not too graphic), F/M, Harry Don't Play When It Comes to Uma, Pre-Descendants 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/cerulean_sin
Summary: Shrimpy.He can hear the hushed, jeering epithet seeming to come from every corner of the dark, filth infested alley and it stokes a fire in his veins. His anger is a precarious thing. Compiled of close proximity and shark-like smiles, a childish lilt coloring his voice. Like a feline, he likes to play with his prey before consuming it.





	On the Dark Side

_“The dark side's calling now nothing is real. She'll never know just how I feel. From out of the shadows she walks like a dream. Makes me feel crazy, makes me feel so mean. Ain't nothing gonna save you from the love that's blind. Slip to the dark side and cross that line...”_ \- Eddie and the Cruisers

* * *

_Shrimpy_.

He can hear the hushed, jeering epithet seeming to come from every corner of the dark, filth infested alley and it stokes a fire in his veins. His anger is a precarious thing. Compiled of close proximity and shark-like smiles, a childish lilt coloring his voice. Like a feline, he likes to play with his prey before consuming it. The thrill of the chase churning like a gale in his bones. He drags the point of his hook along the crumbling brick wall, delighting in the chilling screech that echoes. He giggles, a raucous, unhinged sound that rises in the stale, fetid air. 

His steps are crooked, his gait swaying and wide. The stragglers he passes gives him distance, averting their gazes, slipping into the shadows. He pays them no attention. It's not petty theft he has on his mind tonight. No, what he's looking for is right in his sights now. The worm of a man smoking a hand rolled cigarette as if he doesn't have a care in the world. As if he doesn't even realize insulting the captain of his ship was the last thing he was ever going to do. 

For his credit, the stinking lump of fish bait tries to put on a brave front, trading the cigarette for a switch blade with a yellow sneer. And that just makes the wrath within the pirate happily surge for the fight that is sure to happen. It's always better that way. Nothing more boring than gutting a dead fish. 

He rushes the piece of shite, driving his shoulders into a soft, ample gut and they hit the cobblestone hard. He holds his hook aloft and slashes downward only to be met with the metallic cling of the knife's blade hitting the curve. They tussle, a mad tangle of limbs and harsh swears and sweat and rage and he is living for every bit of it. The only thing on the forefront of his mind is the very thing he's fighting for. _Her_. His captain, his everything. Without having to close his eyes and imagine, he can see the dark pull of her gaze, her brown skin, her turquoise locks, The very same that had made that obscene nickname escape the throat of the man beneath him and he sees _red_. For he loves that hair more than his next breath. 

The image is shattered when he feels the skin beneath his ribs give and the cold metal pierce of the knife. The harsh pain only fuels him and he ignores the sharp ache in his side as he rolls to his feet and unsheathes his cutlass. His foe seems to come to his senses now, recognizing the danger he is in. He tries to run, make a dash, but there is nowhere to go. Not when the pirate's hook seizes him by the dirty collar of his tunic and drags him forward with a sickening grin to run him through the pointy end of the sword. And the decaying alley fades to black. 

Wiping the thick crimson from the blade, he sheathes his cutlass with a grunt. He presses a hand to the wound in his side, feeling the warmth of his own blood, painting his fingers. He eyes the man's prone form, crumpled at his feet with a tilted head and almost curious expression. He can't rightly place who he belonged too, which family, what villain he was a descendant of. And perhaps that is for the best. Someone who won't be missed. Sucking in a steadying breath and gritting his teeth against the pain, he grabs the arms and drags the body toward the docks. He finishes the act with the toe of his boot, kicking the sack of meat over the edge and listening for the splash of it hitting the shark infested waters. 

The sea never disappoints. 

And an hour later, when he stumbles up the gangplank of the Lost Revenge, near delirious from the flood of adrenaline and blood loss, _she_ is there, seeming to rise out of the fog like a beacon of light, shoving a tankard of rum into his free hand and dragging him by the hook below deck to her quarters. She's a bit rough as she pushes him down but he doesn't mind. She can pretend to be annoyed, feign exasperation all she wants. Only he can read the concern she tries to conceal, the small dash of fear as her hands flutter over his wounds and she hisses his name in a chiding tone that lacks her usual severity. It's a deep cut but he'll live. He doesn't have a choice because the alternative would mean not waking up to her face. And that would be unacceptable. 

The bite of the needle as she stitches him up, gentler than he thought she might, is dulled by the rum he gulps down greedily. But his vision remains clear despite the buzz he can feel spreading, weighing down his limbs, lightening his head. Chasing away the sounds of hoarse screams and the wet squelch of impaled flesh. No, all he can focus on is long turquoise braids and dark skin. His hook feels as if it weighs a tonne as he sifts it through the weaved tendrils and pulls them to his face. He inhales slowly, indulgently and sighs. 

Her hands still from their work and she glares at him. She hates when he does that. And she tries to yank her hair from his grasp with a quick motion of her head. He's prepared for it though and gives his hook a twirl, winding the braids around the metal curve so if she tries again, she'll hurt herself. He smiles, a droll gnash of teeth and breathes in again. She rolls her eyes, but the expression is more petulance, irritated allowance, than true anger. Idiot, she calls him, and his smile widens. 

She doesn't smell of shrimp. Not to him. Ever. Because that would mean conceding defeat to the purple haired wench whose name was not to be spoken. The one who had abandoned them all when she and her little friends skipped off into the Auradon sunset. The one who had inadvertently murdered the man who was now literally swimming with the fishes by introducing that hellish nickname to his vocabulary in the first place.

No, his captain never smells like shrimp to him.

She smells like _home_. 

Because that's where he is whenever she is near.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing romantic Harry is fun but exploring this side of him was fun as well. Descendants 2 Harry seems a bit more....dark than Descendants 3 Harry and I wanted to try my hand at delving into that. I hope you all enjoyed it. Feedback would be much appreciated.


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